


Shadow

by wanderingrebel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Gen, Multi, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingrebel/pseuds/wanderingrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes - roommates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_ CHAPTER 1  _ **

John was increasingly convinced that this was not as spectacular an idea in reality as the anticipation and longing for it had made him think.   
Taking a tentative step towards the imposing building of Hardinge, a building so opulent in itself with thick ivy shrouding its twin towers and a vast immaculate field, John could not help but buzz with fear. It was undoubtedly a school for the aristocratic and the filthy rich and as luck would have it, John fit into neither category, having been accepted solely on the basis of academic merit. A misfit, that’s what he was, in every possible way and the dread of being an oddity crept into him.   
“Bugger,” he exhaled, trying to desperately calm himself down, “What was I expecting?”  
Hauling his luggage through the reception desk, he muttered abuse at himself and felt the familiar prick of anxiety greeting him like an old friend.   
He was throttled by a mayhem of chatter, people were undulating in and out of the foyer with an air of superiority and affluence, and of course, luggage he would trip over if he continued to walk in the daze he was currently in.   
“Excuse me?” He reached out to a young, but not quite so youthful man, dressed impeccably in a three piece suit, his countenance scrunched in a grimace because of the anarchy.   
“Ah, John Watson,” he drawled, smiling sinisterly. “I assume you’re looking for directions?”  
John nodded, intimidated by his overwhelming presence.   
“Second floor and the second room to your left, it would certainly suit you better to use the stairwell.”   
Fumbling, John thanked him and hoped against hope that everyone in this school would not be so peculiar and daunting.   
It was only when he was gasping for breath on the second floor’s quiet corridor it struck him that the man had known John’s name and motive. “What the hell is wrong with this place?” He mumbled to the wall.   
Feeling strangely violated, he located his room – 221B written on the wooden door in golden italic lettering and pushed it open.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Two voices shouted simultaneously. One was John’s and the other, a dulcet baritone emanating from a boy with a tangle of black curls, opalescent eyes scrutinizing John and a scowl on his bow of a mouth .   
“What are you doing here?” He asked sharply, moving his lithe body away from the clutter of books he had open and strode towards John.   
“This is 221B,” John replied, crossly, “It’s my room, too.”  
“Not for long,” he retorted, sizing John up and shaking his head in disbelief. “I cannot believe the nerve of bloody Mycroft.” He snarled.   
John looked around – the room was, he decided, irrevocably messy, a veritable bedlam of books, papers, diagrams, more books, scientific equipment and what he hoped wasn’t a real human skull.   
Gulping, he gazed at the boy who had become eerily silent. “I don’t know what you think or plan to do, this is the room I’ve been assigned and I’d like you to clear your stuff up from my bed.”   
He decided to deign John with a withering glance and removed his mess from the bed. “I play the violin at night,” he finally said.   
“Um, when do you sleep?” John asked, flummoxed.

“Sleep is for the weak,” he hissed. “And I don’t talk for hours, days even at a stretch. Don’t bother me while I’m working.”  
“Look, uh,-“John started, now annoyed himself.   
“Sherlock. My name is Sherlock.”   
“Your name’s Sherlock?” John echoed.   
“How many times will I have to repeat my name before it penetrates your thick skull, John?”   
“I didn’t mean it, ARGH, how do you know my name?”  
“I observed.” Sherlock said, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.  
“Is everyone here so, I don’t know, observant?” John rolled his eyes in despair. He had really made a foolish decision, Mother was right, he could never belong in a place like this.  
“No, they’re actually a bunch of idiots.”  
“God, I hope so.” John smiled slightly.   
“I suppose you enjoy engaging in their nonsensical conversations, utter drivel.”  
There was something enigmatic about Sherlock that John couldn’t pinpoint. It was his very aura of eccentricity and there was no other word to put it, but of gravity. He commanded attention.   
Turning slightly pink, John turned his concentration to unpacking.   
“Interesting,” Sherlock whispered from behind him and John could almost hear a smirk in his voice.   
“What’s so interesting?” John asked, still not facing Sherlock.   
Sherlock sauntered towards him and said, “You are interesting.”  
“Who me?” John asked dubiously. “Why?”  
Leaning towards John, Sherlock repeated, “You are interesting.”  
Startlingly aware of Sherlock’s gaze on him, John shifted awkwardly. His stare was baring, like he was stripping John of all that he had so cautiously hid all these years.   
“People wear their life’s story like scars,” Sherlock leant even closer. “Some have battle wounds and others carry nostalgic memories.”   
Bewildered, John took a hasty step backwards.  
“John Watson, here you are in Hardinge, in your very last year of schooling – luck? I think not. You worked for it, immensely hard, got in purely on the basis of merit. Your jumper, a gift from a sibling or family member clearly suggests the state of your family’s finances, a scholarship – the monetary problems got worse, as did your father’s alcoholism, rehab didn’t work out but cost a lot of money, exacerbating your money constraints. Your brother – Harry, isn’t he? He has the potentialities of a budding alcoholic, and you’re petrified that he would become one – hence your disinterest in going out to the pub tonight and meeting the lads, your mother’s resented you leaving the house to come here, didn’t she? Wanted you to stay and help her manage the house since Harry’s no help. But you were frantic to build a life for yourself that wasn’t dysfunctional. Am I wrong?” Sherlock exhaled.  
“That,” John managed after a while, regaining his voice after being rendered dumbstruck, “Was brilliant.” He looked bowled over, and a tiny bit embarrassed.   
Sherlock knew his life; he saw it as a compilation of facts but didn’t see John as their amalgam. To him, John’s life made him what he was but wasn’t who he was.   
Mirroring John’s incredulous expression, Sherlock said, “You thought that was brilliant?”  
“Of course it bloody was. Phenomenal. HOW DID YOU DO THAT?”  
Sherlock was used to people punch him, or sob hysterically and then punch him when he deduced them. John thought he was brilliant and for the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. “That’s not what people usually say,” he grinned.  
“What do they usually say?”  
“Piss off.”  
“Although, Harry is my sister. Her name’s Harriet.” John chuckled.  
And there, standing in the midst of chaos, the two boys’ laughter fused with the faint echo of sunlight, slowly retreating into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to all those who read this! And 3 kudos, yay!  
This is my very first fanfiction so please forgive me for the errors.   
Love,  
Kate x 

* * *

Music has an uncanny ability to express what you cannot put to words.  
Especially, for John. Sherlock knew all there was to know about John – factually, but he could not fathom what John felt, a tempest of anxiety whirling inside him, tearing him apart.  
Sherlock played the violin at night – exquisitely. The ethereal music, poignant and indelible- became John’s lullaby. It carried him away from the storm of worry and horror and let him fall in to a world of his very own.  
In only two weeks, John felt lighter, somehow, smiling at odd moments and had an inexplicable spring to his step. John wondered if this what was being happy felt like.

It was afternoon when John pushed the door to 221B open; he had left in the morning, failing to awaken a stubborn Sherlock who had stayed awake till after dawn.  
“I brought you some food,” John flung his bag on the bed, glancing at Sherlock bent over a battered copy of War and Peace, his brow furrowed furiously. “What is this idiocy?” He cursed.  
“I’ve never read it,” John stated. “Eat something, Sherlock!”  
He held out some scraps of food he had managed to sneak out the Dining Hall for Sherlock.  
“I don’t want it.” Sherlock grimaced.  
“You need fuel.” John asserted. “I will force this food down your throat if I have to.”  
Sherlock finally looked up, smiling faintly. “Apparent care-taking tendencies.”  
“Oh, God, leave your deductions for a minute and just eat.” John held his arms up in resignation. “Please.”  
Sherlock’s smile curved into a moue as he grudgingly put a mouthful in his mouth. “Alright?” He asked.  
John grinned. “Yes.”  
With an air of accomplishment, John perched himself on the table and began his Mathematics preparation.  
Sherlock stared at John. He had grown increasingly intrigued by John. Unlike other people whom he could deduce completely in their first meeting, John was surprising, revealing intricate parts of himself as time passed – his whole truth wasn’t etched in his mannerisms and on his skin. Also, John was loyal, fiercely loyal, funny, witty and intelligent; more than that, he was nice to Sherlock as if he actually enjoyed his company, complimenting him on things that people had always called him ‘Freak’ for, making an effort to weave himself into Sherlock’s life. As brilliant as he was, Sherlock could not deduce why John did so. John’s compliments and laughter, Sherlock realized, gave him an incentive that he hadn’t previously needed.  
“ARGH, this is killing me,” John groaned, his eyes bleary from reading and his throat parched.  
“Don’t be obtuse, John. You cannot just drop dead studying Mathematics.” Sherlock cut in.  
“Metaphorically,” John sniggered.  
“Ah,” Sherlock smirked, “How literary.”  
“At least I won’t fail English, then.”  
Giggling, John turned his attention back to his book. He needed to get into some sport, rugby seemed like a good idea. He decided he would sign up for it in the evening.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, hauling himself up and smoothening his jumper, “I’m going out. Do you want to come along?”  
“Signing up for some organized activity, I assume?” Came Sherlock’s muffled reply. He was still absorbed in War and Peace, making annotations in the margins. “Some sport.”  
“How do you –“ John began but stopped, “Yes, the invitation still stands.”  
“I’ll leave you to it.”  
“Alright then,” John sauntered out of the door.  


 

___________________________________________________________

Apologize for the inadequate length!   
All comments, suggestions (and kudos) will be much appreciated. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for reading! I apologize again for the dismal length of this chapter.  
Love,  
Kate 

******

Sherlock was still bent over War and Peace when John returned from rugby, pink from exertion and vigor. “How was rugby?” He asked, his slender fingers closing the book.  
“It was amazing! I feel great.” John panted, kicking his shoes off. “How’s War and Peace coming along?”  
“It’s distressing.” Sherlock’s countenance was deadpan.  
“Why are you reading it, then?” John demanded.  
“John, sometimes work demands things that one doesn’t deem stimulating.” He frowned.  
“What work?” John was flummoxed. He was in the same literature class as Sherlock and they hadn’t been told to read War and Peace.   
“Oh, don’t worry,” Sherlock drawled. “It’s not schoolwork.” He said schoolwork in the most hateful way possible and John laughed.   
“I’m going for a shower, Sherlock. Then both of us will go down for dinner even if you’re not hungry.”  
“But-“ Sherlock began, though smiling.   
“I won’t let you get away with not eating tonight,” John cut him off and said in a very decided tone. “That’s that.”  
Sherlock made a face that was halfway between grinning like a madman and grimacing but agreed reluctantly.   
“Alright, then. I’m going for a bath, I’m all sweaty.” John sighed, taking off his t-shirt unthinkingly.   
The abrupt change in their room’s atmosphere was almost palpable; John felt an unprecedented tension flow in his body and turned a deep shade of scarlet. It was too warm and for the longest minute, Sherlock and John stared at each other in complete, uncomfortable silence.   
John couldn’t handle the heat anymore, he disappeared into the bathroom, thankful for the chill inside it and turned on the shower at the coldest temperature it had. Damn you, sexual frustration, he thought. How else was he to explain that bizarre moment of arousal he had just encountered. It was Sherlock after all, John didn’t even know if he even felt something of _that sort_. 

The walk back the Dining Hall was eerily quiet and both John and Sherlock felt a certain awkwardness flow between them. It would be better the next day, after they – well, John had had a good night’s sleep.   
Sherlock didn’t feel awkward, he was, for once, confounded. He couldn’t make sense of the jumble inside his head, it was madness, sheer madness, he told himself firmly.   
John lay on his bed, exhausted but unable to go to sleep. He sneaked a look at Sherlock who had his back towards him, still perched elegantly on the chair with a final few pages of War and Peace to read.   
“Aren’t you sleepy?” Sherlock asked unexpectedly, breaking John’s line of thought and startling him. “You look fatigued.”  
“I, uh, how do you know I’m not asleep?” John asked, sitting up.  
“You forget that I have a polished coffee pot in front of me.” Sherlock tittered. “You have some questions,” Sherlock remarked, “But you’re afraid to ask.” He turned around to look at John.   
“I do.” John inhaled and said, “What happened…then?”  
“John, you overestimate my ability to understand implicit emotions.”  
“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John sank into his duvet. He was most definitely not having this conversation with Sherlock after all.   
“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

Dawn streaked its way into the room, tracing John’s skin and rhythmic breathing.   
Sherlock hadn’t been able to sleep, not that he usually slept but he hadn’t done anything constructive in the hours John had slept peacefully. John had occupied every nook and cranny of his mind, consuming his sensibility and blurring his logic. Sherlock irrationally feared John sleeping, people slept like it was the most normal thing to do – but how was been oblivious to the world, to forget who you were, to cease thinking for hours at an end ordinary in any manner? Sherlock was petrified John would wake up and change his mind about him or not wake up at all. And Sherlock could not risk losing John.

“That’s not creepy at all,” John mumbled, yawning, “You watching me sleep?”  
Sherlock looked mortified for a second before he smiled. “Morning.”  
“Good morning,” John beamed. “Thank God it’s Saturday.”  
“Mmhm,” Sherlock said. “Rugby again?”  
“No, I thought I’d go to town. Would you come along?” John’s expression was hopeful, almost imploring and Sherlock felt a surge of longing to go to the dreadfully dull town with him and to unearth the endless possibilities that John had.   
“Okay,” Sherlock replied with deliberate nonchalance. “I need new petri-dishes anyway.”  
“It’ll be fun,” John said happily.  
It hit Sherlock then, that he would uncomplainingly visit that mundane town everyday if it made John this happy.   



End file.
